Pressure
by DreadfulDesire
Summary: Bruce Wayne is gone . But the Batman is not. A new Dark Knight will rise. But our boy wonder is cracking under the pressure of the cape and cowl. The team watched as their leader , descends into the shadows , that surrounded the original Batman. The team must convince Dick Grayson that all is not lost , while making sure the boy didn't lose himself.


**AN – I own nothing , nothing if I don't have you . Please Review . **

The world was on his shoulders, but they were far too weak. The suit hung on him, but it was too big – too bulky, clearly meant for a man at least four inches taller and a lot more muscular. The cowl – so restrictive, it seemed to choke him – and it clung to sweaty pieces of hair. The responsibility was his and his alone. He waited for the fire burning in his heart to quell, he tried. He tried so very hard to abate the intensity of the burn but alas, it was pointless.

Words flew around him. _He_ was now the Dark Knight but there would only be one Caped Crusader. Dick let out a harsh bitter sound. But, alas the Batman was only human and Dick truly believed that Bruce Wayne would live forever – after all he was the "Goddamn Batman". He smiled under the cowl – but the grin died instantly as he caught abhorrent stench of his own sweat. The smell breaching his senses – he knew what the future would hold - empty promises of shower.

Ever, the little circus boy, Dick scolded himself for losing his train of thought before the pain drafted into his soul. Bruce Wayne was_ dead_. The Batman was not dead however, that much was clear. The Batman would stand through the barriers of time and space. But things change. And life moves on – or so seemed. The batman was not a title – nothing to renounce or pass on. But deep in his heart he knew that the successor would be him – and he would strive for the same perfection that Bruce looked for.

Perfection was unattainable and downright impossible for anybody. He however was not awarded with the simple pleasures of being an 'anybody' . He couldn't afford to be anything but perfect, but it seemed that was the farthest thing he could actually be. And with shoulders hunched in defeat – he calls upon himself to abort the mission. He turned taking the short-cut towards the exit. Falling short on everything – Bruce's expectations, and the title of the world's greatest detective. He puffed remembering how short he was, and how Bruce towered above him.

Tim, Alfred, Jason had all told him it wasn't his fault. But there was no need to absolve the guilt since it was placed correctly on his shoulders. And once he was back in the manor he was again failed another obstacle this fruitless life threw towards. He was tempted. Tempted by the alcohol placed beside him. If he was stronger he would abstain but once again he was far too weak. His lips clasp around the glass, the acrid taste – clearing his head for just a second before the guilt and his senses rush back towards him. His lips twist in a sinister smile as he threw his head back and laughed. Tim and Alfred, hell even Jason were trying to acquit him – when he was guiltier than the freakin' Joker. His senses were dulled and so were his logic – the abysmal streets of Gotham – seemed less scary for a second. He thought maybe Bruce was up there with his parents watching over him – but he sighed. Bruce didn't believe in god, but it was clear as day that he believed in Satan.

The colors blended together, and sounds clashed. He was goddamn drunk and that was apparently hilarious. He was the Batman – his acumen was supposed to be miles above another, but yet – here he was drunk as a sailor. He was laughing at the bottle of Jack, as the liquid swished through his parched lips – clearing his head. Somehow he knew it would be hell in the mourning – but somehow that didn't seem to matter. The pain in his head would mask the pain in his heart. Alfred's acrimony seemed miles away. And the logic slowly was pumped out of him – his body seemed numb – weightless and the world became quiet. And slowly the colors became a black as he lost consciousness. It was obvious. Dick Grayson was drunk, not tipsy, but full on drunk.

Brightness.

Blinding.

Brightness.

But unusual for a hung over 20 year old, Dick Grayson welcomed the splinters of sunlight that slipped through his blinds. The light made his lips turn upward, and just smile. His head hurt like hell but he could use it. It was an anesthetic for his heart – the pain numbing his heart – he couldn't feel the heart burn, regret or loss because of one beautiful migraine that rocked his heart out of head – and let it concentrate on the raging throb that shook him. He stared out as the sun glared at him – reminding him of the stern looks of Bruce Wayne's "Bat Glare" He took the constant throb well - he almost didn't hear the door crack open.

Alfred stood in front of his grandson. They were family – not by blood but in every other mean. And he knew Dick Grayson and he took Bruce's death as a personal failure. And he would not be swayed by Alfred's adamant belief that it was not his goddamn fault.

The boy who was so much like Bruce, but so different. When circumstance stole Bruce's parents from him – he spent his time grieving in shadows, he let the darkness overtake him. But however the boy in his post drunken stupor – then confronted his parent's death as an excuse to live life to its fullest. The boy turned his life into a capre diem. He flew through life with certain alacrity – he flew. He soared – he was robin a symbol of hope, a legend – Nightwing who was an embodiment of raging passion, not a bat.

"Alfie, I'm sorry." Dick Grayson said – his voice quiet with shame, and he thought that his eyes were deceiving him. Brilliant blue eyes, guilt ridden, and sweaty hair stuck on his face – he looked younger. He looked 16, not 20. But his voice, it was small. Unused to the sound of Dick Grayson vulnerable, Alfred told himself to fix his stance, and change his expression. He could see that no matter how the boy affected to be fine, he couldn't hide from the emotions dripping from his tongue.

"There is nothing to be sorry for, Master Dick. " Alfred replied, looking the boy in the eye for him to know how true the words he spoke were. Dick Grayson was affable and amiable – he was an easy friendly person to talk to. Which is why Alfred was confused to see him so closed off – before closing his eyes and scolding himself for thinking that the boy needed time. Hell, Alfred needed time to mourn his son's untimely death.

"Come on now; let's have you take a shower." Alfred said – promptly offering a hand to pull up the young boy who was on the bed. Dick didn't take it instead flipping himself, back onto his feet. His infectious laughter filling the empty halls of Wayne Manor. Alfred stared in amazement – Alfred thought that in his head – that he would of thought that the boy would barely be ambulatory. But to his clear amazement – Dick Grayson performed a backwards flip towards the bathroom. Adroit nimbleness of lighting fast limbs that sprung away from him. Alfred immediately felt better until he took a look into the performer's eyes. They didn't match the laughter.

Alfred almost felt rage stir in himself – but he willed himself to remain allay. He found the act an affront to him – Dick Grayson ever a performer – was a good actor, but he couldn't lie to Alfred. No one could lie to the man with a Bat Glare that was on par with the Batman's. Ambivalent on whether to let the boy be alone, Alfred made up his mind. The boy needed time on his own.

His eyes trained on the boy – even after all these years he stopped to admire his grace and charm adept in his gymnastics. He also saw the boy's altruistic attitude. The boy didn't want me to worry. Alfred's thoughts echoed and with a sad smile he knew that he would always worry for his children. If he could – he would have amended his son's goal, but he couldn't change their motivation. Batman was Bruce, and Bruce was Batman. But now, Bruce was gone.

He saw the amicable acrobat slip into the bathroom. And as soon as the door shut he heard the waterworks.

Crying.

Sobbing .

Screaming.

Alfred held himself. He held the door and he too let the tears slip as he fell. He picked himself up from the ground. His heart was aching for himself and his broken bird. The future was ambiguous. But he knew that they would pick themselves up. He knew. But with the cries of his son, Alfred walked over to the telephone.

He had calls to make.


End file.
